Memories are Made of This
by EvergreenDreamweaver
Summary: Jim returns from an out-of-town trip to find Blair's been injured in the line of duty. Standard h/c fic.


Disclaimer: I do not own the Sentinel or any of the canon television characters, and am making no monies from this story. Any Original Characters belong to the author(s).

Originally written around 2006.

Thank you to those who have been kind enough to read and comment on these stories. You are much appreciated.

 **Memories are Made of This**

By

EvergreenDreamweaver

Police detective Jim Ellison stared pensively through the scratched plastic window of the jetliner, watching his home city of Cascade, Washington come into view beneath him. Easily using his enhanced sight without even thinking about it, the Sentinel briefly focused in on the streets below, then relaxed his concentration and settled back in his seat. _Just a few more minutes,_ he told himself with a sigh, _just a little while and you'll be home! Never thought two days could feel so much like a month!_ He momentarily extended his hearing, focusing on the cockpit and the quiet chatter he could hear from the pilot, copilot and the airport tower as they prepared for landing. Everything was normal – nice, quiet, routine arrival.

Flying to a small town in Wisconsin to attend a military funeral – a commanding officer from Jim's basic training days, whom the former Army Captain James Ellison remembered with grim affection – and returning less than 48 hours after his departure, Jim was at a loss to explain his weariness and sense of disquiet. The trip wasn't long enough to cause jet lag. The funeral hadn't caused it – the elderly veteran had had a full life and died peacefully in his sleep, and the service itself had been quiet and dignified, full of well-deserved respect. He'd seen some old acquaintances and renewed a few friendships, nothing to write home about – no, nothing there to cause an upset.

Was it because he'd gone alone? Perhaps...Ellison was so used to having his roommate, best friend and detective partner Blair Sandburg with him, it almost felt like he was missing a body part when Blair wasn't at his side. _Maybe that's what happens when a Sentinel travels too far away from his Guide,_ he mused, shutting his eyes against the afternoon sunlight streaming through the window. Not that he'd ever mention this philosophical notion to Sandburg – it would satisfy him way too much! Blair dearly loved it when Jim came up with these Sentinel-related things which _he_ , of course, had been touting for years, but which Jim always refuted – until they became so obvious that he couldn't argue any longer.

He couldn't deny that he'd missed Blair, even just for the 48 hours, but there had been no way Captain Banks – head of the Major Crimes Division of the Cascade Police, and Jim and Blair's boss – had been willing to allow the absence of both halves of the Ellison-Sandburg team without a very good reason. And since Blair hadn't known the funeral's guest of honor, Jim wasn't in any great need of 'Guide-ance,' and they were swamped with work in the department, Banks had been obdurate in his refusal to grant Sandburg time off to accompany Jim to Wisconsin. He'd been more than obdurate, Ellison thought, with a wry smile. The mildest phrase he'd used was "Hell, no, Ellison, Sandburg can't go with you! YOU have leave to go – but not him!" There had been other reiterations of the denial, in more forceful terms, when Jim had been inclined to argue the point; Blair had known better than to even try.

He'd ended up flying to Wisconsin alone.

Not knowing whether or not his partner would be able to pick him up, Jim had taken the truck to the airport and left it in long-term parking. That way no matter if the plane was late, if he caught an earlier flight, if Sandburg was tied up with work, whatever; he could just get in it and drive it home. He rather resented the parking fees, but it was marginally less costly than a taxi – and anyway, he despised taxis. He much preferred to drive his own vehicle.

The jetliner touched the tarmac precisely on schedule, and Jim stood to retrieve his carry-on luggage from the overhead compartment, thankful that he didn't have to get any checked bags. He edged down the crowded aisle to the exit, giving a perfunctory smile to the flight attendant who wished him a pleasant evening "and thank you for flying with us!"

Thankfully quickening his pace once he reached the Jetway™, Jim strode down the long corridor, heading for the exit and a shuttle to take him to where he'd parked. But just as he neared the security checkpoints, he was surprised to hear a familiar voice hail him.

"Ellison! Jim! Over here, man!"

Jim whipped around; the voice was familiar, all right, but it was not the hoped-for familiarity of Blair Sandburg's voice. Instead, he saw another face from Major Crimes – Detective Henri Brown was gesturing to him from just the other side of the metal detectors – and he felt as if his heart had suddenly plunged to the bottom of his stomach. There was absolutely no reason Brown would be here, unless...

"H? What's happened? Has something happened to Sandburg?" Jim reached Brown in three strides, dropped his bag and clutched his colleague's arm tightly.

"Now take it easy—"

"You wouldn't be here otherwise!" Ellison snapped. "What's happened?"

Brown lowered his eyes momentarily, avoiding the other's penetrating gaze, then looked up. "He's been hurt, Jim," he said gently.

"How? When? He was fine this morning; I talked to him on the phone! Why didn't someone let me know—?" Ellison stormed.

"It just happened a couple hours ago, babe; you were already in flight."

"How bad, H?" The Sentinel braced himself for the worst. "And what?"

"I'm not real sure," Brown admitted. "I wasn't there when it happened, but—"

"When WHAT happened?"

"Come on, let's walk as we talk." Henri pivoted around and started towards the exits. "You don't have to go to Baggage Claim, do you?"

"No." Ellison shook his head and followed the other detective. "TALK, H," he demanded.

"Okay, okay – but understand this: I wasn't there. I don't have all the details. I'm just the messenger, okay? You don't shoot the messenger, remember?."

"Talk." Jim's jaw was clenched so tight his teeth were starting to ache.

"About one o'clock this afternoon, there was a robbery attempt at the downtown branch of Cascade Federal bank. The big old one with all the steps up, ya know?" Brown began. Jim nodded encouragingly. "The teller managed to trip a silent alarm, and patrol units got there before the perps got away," Brown continued, grimacing. "And it turned into a hostage situation, quicker'n you could blink."

The Sentinel felt his heartbeat speed up in apprehension. A hostage situation? He could think of two different scenarios that might involve his partner and Guide in a hostage situation...and he didn't like either one of them!

"That's when Major Crimes got called in," Henri went on. "Simon was asked for – one guess – our newest detective, who just happens to be about the best hostage negotiator around."

"Blair," Ellison said flatly. He had been right: he didn't like this situation at all, but it had _some_ positive aspects. At least Blair hadn't been one of the hostages.

"You got it," the other detective sighed. "But Jim – he didn't go alone, don't think that! Simon sent Rafe and Connor along with him."

 _Rafe and Connor? What kind of backup is that?_ Jim sighed; he was being unfair, and he knew it. Rafe and Megan were both excellent police officers, and Blair would have been as safe with them as with anyone else _. Anyone else except_ _me_ _!_

"You need a ride home?" Brown asked now, interrupting himself.

"No, I've got the truck in long-term parking."

"I'll drop you in the lot, then," H offered. "I'm right outside."

Ellison noted with bleak amusement that Brown had parked in a loading zone and left his 'bubblegum' lights flashing. No one was likely to tow an official car on police business, or bother the cop. Indeed, people were giving both grim-faced detectives wary looks and a wide berth. He tossed his bag into the back, and got into the passenger seat while Henri slid behind the wheel and started the engine. Once he'd moved into the flow of cars leaving the terminal, heading for the far-flung parking lots, Brown resumed his story.

"At first, I guess it went down okay – the whole place was surrounded by SWAT teams, just waiting...but Hairboy just went about prepping to talk the guys in the bank down. So they contacted 'em, with a bullhorn. And they said okay, Sandburg could come in and chat."

Jim ground his teeth again. Damnit, why did his partner have to be so good at this? "So – what went wrong?" he made himself ask.

Brown sighed. "He started up those front steps. Rafe and Connor were a little ways behind him; he'd negotiated that they could accompany him up the steps but not inside. One of the perps was standing in the doorway at the top, holding a gun on them; there was another guy inside – armed – with the bank people and customers. The SWAT guys were just waiting for an excuse to shoot, if you ask me. And then..." He broke off, shaking his head.

"H!" Jim yelled in frustration, "TELL ME!"

"There was a car backfire down the block," Brown said miserably. "It startled everybody – and the guy at the top of the stairs spooked, and fired his gun. At Sandburg."

Jim made a dreadful, agonized sound. "He was shot?" he whispered. He dug his fingernails into his palms in an effort to stay focused. This was no time to zone, tempting though it might be, even to get away from the horrible thought that his partner had taken a bullet at close range.

"No! Well, yeah, but Jim, it was just a graze! Really, Simon told me!" Brown hastened to reassure him. "It just nicked the edge of his shoulder – but...ah, damn, babe, when he was hit, Hairboy jerked back, naturally, and went off-balance. He was about two-thirds of the way up the stairs, and—"

"And he fell." Ellison could see it in his mind's eye, see Blair clutching at his bleeding shoulder, tumbling helplessly down those goddamn marble steps, Rafe and Connor futilely trying to break his fall. Saw him crumpled at the bottom, on the unforgiving cement...

"Uh-huh. Damn, why am I always the one that has to deliver the bad news?" Henri mumbled. "Jim, he was wearing Kevlar," he added, striving to comfort his colleague. "It would have protected his ribs and midsection and his back."

They'd reached the long-term parking lots, and Ellison abstractedly pulled out the slip of paper where he'd written down the location of his truck. "E-14," he muttered, and Brown turned in the appropriate direction. "How bad is he hurt?"

"Not sure," the other detective said softly. "A SWAT sharpshooter took out the perp, and they rushed the building – guess everything turned out okay; I haven't heard the details. There were emergency crews there already, of course – they got Sandburg headed for the hospital almost immediately. Rafe called me outta the courtroom and I went over to the hospital...Rafe and Connor had to stay at the crime scene...Simon was already there at the hospital, and he sent me to pick you up." He stopped his car next to Jim's blue-and-white pickup. "Babe, are you okay to drive? I can take you over to the hospital," he offered.

"I'm fine," Jim sighed. "I'm fine to drive."

"Well, you'll get a _po_ -lice escort, at any rate," Brown grinned a little, and flipped on his flashers. He gave a nudge to the siren, which obligingly yipped. "Turn yours on too, Jim; we'll cut through traffic like nobody's business!"

Ellison retrieved his bag from the back seat of Brown's car and heaved it into the truck, then climbed in and started the engine. Following Brown's example, he activated his flashing warning lights. After a hasty stop to pay Jim's parking fee to the startled attendant, the two detectives accelerated their vehicles out of the parking lot and into traffic, sirens wailing a dismal warning.

#####

When they reached the parking lot of Cascade General Hospital, Jim parked his truck; Henri pulled up next to him but didn't shut off his car's engine.

"I've got to go check in at work," he half-apologized, "there'll probably be a message for me about when I need to be back in court. I'm keepin' my fingers crossed for Hairboy."

"Thanks." Ellison nodded curtly. He didn't resent Brown, wasn't mad at him – but right now he couldn't marshal his feelings sufficiently to be more than decently civil. His mind was focused on Blair.

"Later, Jim." Henri eased his car away, and Ellison strode across the asphalt towards the emergency entrance. He walked in, trying to keep everything under strict control. Unconsciously, he slid into his most 'military' mode, with all emotions tightly clamped down. Whatever had happened to his partner, Jim Ellison was not going to crack under the strain, no way.

He was only a few paces inside the ER waiting room when he sensed Simon Banks' presence. Jim's eyes locked on his captain...and he abruptly relaxed. Being a trained detective as well as a Sentinel, Jim knew how to read body language, and he knew Simon's better than anyone else's, save Blair. Simon was concerned...he was worried, a little, anyway – but he was _not_ afraid. And if he wasn't afraid, then that meant...

"Simon." Jim strode purposefully across the linoleum flooring. Banks looked up from the magazine he was absently leafing through.

"Jim!" The big captain got to his feet, a relieved smile on his face. "Glad you made it."

"Brown made sure of that." Ellison searched his boss's countenance. "How's Sandburg?"

Simon shook his head and sat down again. "I haven't heard much yet," he admitted. "Doctor came out once and said they were going to do x-rays and a CT scan, because of the head injury—"

"Head injury? What head injury?" Jim exclaimed, looming over the other man. Suddenly he was all taut nerves again.

Banks sighed. "I'm sorry, I thought Brown would have told you."

"He said he didn't know about Blair's injuries."

"Well, when he fell, he bumped his head pretty hard on the steps – more than once, evidently. He hadn't regained consciousness by the time he got here," Simon confessed reluctantly. He knew Jim wasn't going to like news like this.

"Oh Jesus, Simon..." Ellison sank into another chair and dropped his face into his hands. Banks reached to put a hand on his shoulder, trying for encouragement. After a moment Jim raised his head again. "Who's his doctor, do you know?" He felt a grim, ironic amusement. Just how pathetic was it when you knew all the doctors in the emergency room by name, anyway?

"Penhallow," Simon grunted.

Penhallow. Okay, he was a good guy. Tall and thin and bald, with wire-rimmed glasses and an aquiline nose, in Jim's estimation he looked like he ought to be teaching upper level biology in a college somewhere, rather than commanding a hospital emergency room. Appearances notwithstanding, Penhallow was a good doctor, and he'd treated both Jim and Blair before. He knew about Jim's sensitivities to drugs and medications; he knew they were partners and roommates, and he knew that if you wanted Ellison or Sandburg to cooperate, you kept them together as much as possible – yeah, of any of the ER doctors Jim might choose, Penhallow ranked right up near the top.

"That's good," he said aloud. "He'll take good care of him." He paused a moment. "How did the bank robbery thing work out?"

"Both perps killed," Simon said brusquely, "couple of bank employees roughed up a little, but no real damage. Sandburg's injuries were the only ones the police took."

"That's good," Jim repeated dully, wishing he could sound more enthused about it. He felt contrary and spiteful; he caught himself almost wishing resentfully that some others on the police force had been hurt too; he didn't want Sandburg to be the only casualty... Footsteps made him look up, and he started to his feet when he saw Dr. Penhallow approaching.

"Detective Ellison – Captain Banks," the physician acknowledged them, and shook Jim's hand. "I thought you'd like to know how things stand with Detective Sandburg." He gestured towards the chairs. "Please, sit down again." He took his own invitation, and waited until Simon and Jim had re-seated themselves before going on with the conversation.

"The vest he was wearing saved him from broken ribs, which in turn probably saved him from punctured lungs," he began. "But of course, it didn't protect the rest of his body, and he took quite a tumble. He has a broken left wrist, fairly severe bruising on his arms and legs, and a couple of nasty bumps on his head. Some facial bruising, nothing broken. X-rays and CT scan showed concussion, but no skull fracture. Oh, and of course the bullet graze on his upper arm." He smiled encouragingly at the two intently-listening detectives. "Once his wrist is in a cast, he can be released, assuming you, Detective Ellison, will be around to keep an eye on him. Otherwise, we'd like to keep him overnight for observation, just to be on the safe side." He paused, a slight frown furrowing his forehead. "I thought you were out of town...?"

"I just got here – came straight from the airport," Ellison said. "I take it he's conscious now?"

"He's conscious..." Something in the doctor's voice made Jim uneasy. "But he's pretty dazed yet. And he's showing signs of some short-term memory loss."

 _Memory __loss_ _?_ Jim's tension increased exponentially, and he felt Simon stiffen beside him as well. "What kind of memory loss?" he grated.

"He can't recall anything about getting hurt," Penhallow explained gently. "From what I can tell, the last thing he remembers is going to lunch today. I didn't mean to alarm you," he half-apologized. "It's minimal, believe me. Blair knows who he is and where he is, and what day it is – and he remembered you were out of town, after he'd asked for you a couple of times," he added to Jim, "but the whole thing with the bank robbery and the bullet wound and the fall – well, that's a blank. It's a very common occurrence, believe me," he assured them. "Nothing to be concerned about."

"Will it – come back? Will he remember?" Banks asked.

"That I can't tell you," Penhallow admitted. "Sometimes complete memory returns within 24 hours. Sometimes little bits and pieces come back. Sometimes the person loses a little chunk of time for good. It's kind of a crap shoot, quite honestly."

"Can I see him?" Jim quietly requested. He needed it more than ever now; he had to get to Blair, he had to see for himself that his partner and Guide was all right. _".._. _and he remembered you were out of town, after he'd asked for you a couple of times..."_ Blair had asked for him, and he hadn't been there when his best friend needed him.

 _Memory loss._ The thought of Blair losing _any_ part of his amazing brain function, even this tiny bit, was unsettling. Although Jim had to admit to himself that if he could _selectively_ wipe some of Blair's memories, he'd do it. The memory of being kidnapped by David Lash, for example. Of being pursued through deep mountain forests and shot...Of being tossed out of the loft by Jim, and then...the fountain.. The memory of being repudiated once again by Jim, when the dissertation was leaked. The memory of his press conference...

"Yes, you can see him." Penhallow's voice interrupted the Sentinel's grim thoughts. "Come with me."

"Jim, I have to get back to the office," Simon interjected guiltily. "I've got to deal with all the...garbage," he modified what he would have liked to call it, all the red tape, paperwork and politics of interdepartmental workings, especially where loaning an officer out had resulted in injury. "Now that you're here..."

"Go ahead, sir," Ellison nodded his understanding. "I'll let you know how he is later. Thanks for being here for him."

Banks took his leave and Jim followed Dr. Penhallow down the hallway towards the treatment cubicles. He heard his partner's voice suddenly, sounding miserable and fretful.

"...but I want to go home!" Blair was saying – no, make that _whining_. "I'll be fine; I want to go home."

"Detective Sandburg..." It was a female voice, Jim noted, probably a nurse. "We can't send you home yet; your wrist isn't casted, and Dr. Penhallow doesn't want you to be by yourself, remember?"

Penhallow turned, grinning, and jerked his head towards the cubicle from whence the voices came. "Go on in," he murmured. "I'll alert Orthopedics to get that cast on his wrist. Then you can take him home." He brushed past Jim, heading back up the corridor. Ellison sidled up to the curtained entrance and glanced in, careful to remain out of sight.

Blair was lying on a hospital cot, the head slightly elevated. He was wearing his khaki pants, his socks and shoes, but no shirt. He was cradling his left arm against his stomach, and there was a bandage taped to the same arm, just below his shoulder. Bruises were starting to come up on his arms and shoulders – and one spectacular one on his right cheekbone which made Jim wince just to look at it.

A gray-blonde, fortyish nurse in blue scrubs was standing at the foot of the bed, writing something on a medical chart. She smiled and shook her head as Blair spoke again.

"I don't need anyone with me; I'm an adult. I'll set an alarm to wake me up every couple of hours. Jeez, I've got to get home..."

That was his cue. Jim pulled back the edge of the drape and stepped into the cubicle. "As soon as your wrist is done and the doc says it's okay, I'll take you home, Chief."

Blair turned his head, wincing with pain. Tight lines of discomfort radiated around his sea-blue eyes as he gazed blearily at Jim. He frowned and then spoke:

"And you would be...?"

#####

It was a little while later – after a contrite Blair had apologized: "Jim, Jim, I'm sorry, man, I'm sorry, but it was just so...I knew you'd have heard about the memory thing, and it was too much to resist...I didn't mean to scare you so much...I'm really sorry...Jim, breathe, man, please!"

After Jim had finally ceased hyperventilating: "I swear, Sandburg, when you are healthy again, I am going to KILL you! And no one will ever find a single scrap of your miserable, pathetic hide! Damn you, Chief!"

And after the nurse had stopped laughing herself silly – "Detective Sandburg, shame on you; that was mean!" – and had taken herself off down the hall, giggling all the way, to find a wheelchair to take Blair to have a cast put on his wrist...

After all those things, Jim found himself perched on the edge of the hospital cot, carefully holding his partner flat and attempting to soothe him, for Blair, trying to offer reassurance, had sat up much too fast, turned a ghastly shade of grayish-white and nearly pitched onto the floor.

"Easy now...Not a smart move, there, Einstein...dumber than your usual, you know?" His voice shook a little; he felt as if he'd been riding a roller coaster of emotions for the last hour or so. He'd been contented on the airplane, terrified in the airport, worried out of his mind on the way to the hospital, relieved after talking with Dr. Penhallow – and just now he was still irked by Sandburg's regrettable attempt at a joke, but his exasperation was swamped under vast concern for Blair.

"Sorry...stupid, I know..." Blair didn't indicate whether he meant the joke or the attempt to sit up. He shifted restlessly, then hissed with pain, squeezing his eyes tightly shut, and whispered plaintively, "I just wanna go home, Jim..."

"I know, Chief. Me too. It won't be too much longer." _I hope!_

Jim wanted to smooth the lines of pain away from Blair's face, wished to soothe the bumps and bruises – but he didn't dare, not yet. The hurts were still too fresh, too raw; even a light touch would cause more pain than comfort. He managed to find a relatively unmarked area – Blair's right hand and arm – and rubbed it gently, meanwhile scanning him with all his senses opened wide. Despite the x-rays and other tests the hospital had run, the Sentinel had to ascertain for himself that his Guide was all right. He was vastly relieved to find all Sandburg's vitals strong and in normal range, and felt himself relaxing just a little.

Blair opened his eyes, squinting against a throbbing headache. "You came straight from the airport, didn't you?"

"Yeah – Brown met me there to tell me what happened."

Blair sighed. "I wish he'd been here to tell ME what happened," he complained. "I can't remember anything after going to lunch! Jim—" he went on, gazing up at his partner wistfully, "do you think I'll remember later?"

"Hard to say," Ellison said frankly. "The doctor said it was a crap-shoot; can't predict who remembers, or what or why or when."

"Swell," Blair groused. He flounced a little, then flinched again.

"Lie still," Jim told him firmly. "Maybe it's just as well you don't remember, Chief. From what I hear, it wasn't a very enjoyable afternoon, from your point of view, at least."

"I know, but...I don't like having something missing, ya know? I DID things, said things...and now it's gone."

"Just pretend you were knocked out," Jim advised. "Don't keep pushing at trying to remember; you'll just make your headache worse."

"But I—"

"Chief, if it's any comfort, I hear you did some really good things in that time," Ellison tried to reassure him. "It's not like you went out and committed axe murders or anything."

The arrival of the nurse with the wheelchair ended their conversation. Jim helped Blair off the bed and into the chair, steadying him when he swayed dizzily. Once settled, Blair smiled wanly up at him.

"I'll be done soon," he half-promised.

"I'll be here," Ellison assured him, and quickly departed for the waiting room, before he could disgrace himself by demanding to go along.

#####

He'd been waiting about half an hour, working in a desultory fashion on a crossword puzzle he'd found in the back of a magazine, when, to his surprise, a familiar voice, face and form accosted him: "Detective Ellison!"

He got to his feet and greeted the pretty blonde woman with scant welcome. "Ms. Hawthorne," he replied distantly. Wendy Hawthorne had come and gone and reappeared again in Cascade, over the last few years, always the potential for being a thorn in the sides of Ellison and Sandburg. He hadn't thought about news coverage until now, but of course the radio and television stations would have been all over the situation at the bank. But why was she _here_? Didn't she already have her story?

"It was your partner who was the hostage negotiator at the bank this afternoon, wasn't it? Detective Sandburg?" Wendy asked now, without preliminary.

There was no sense in lying to her; she probably had it all on film anyway. "Yes," he said tersely.

Wendy Hawthorne came nearer. Jim glanced around, looking for her ever-present cameraman, but she appeared to be alone. "Detective Ellison," she said quietly, "I'm not here to badger you, but you must know this is a big story. You weren't at the bank with your partner, but now you're here—"

She paused, waiting for him to say something. He eyed her with distaste and refused to take the bait, drawing himself up to his full height and folding his arms obdurately.

"Jim—" she tried again, "listen. If you give me an exclusive interview, you'll only have to tell it once, and then when I break it, you'll be left alone. We've got film footage, but I need a follow-up about Blair."

"The police department has a public relations contact person," he reminded her wearily.

"They don't have anything at all about Blair's condition; I already tried that route. And of course the hospital won't tell me a thing."

 _Hmmm. Simon probably hasn't had time to give PR the updated news on Blair,_ Jim mused. Well, since the whole thing was already on film, up to the time Blair had been whisked away to the hospital, and there wasn't anything secret about it – why not? This way Wendy would owe them one.

"Blair has a broken wrist and a concussion," he said quietly, careful to phrase the information in as neutral a way as possible, "a bullet graze on his shoulder, and a whole lot of bruises. But he'll be released as soon as his wrist's in a cast. He'll be on medical leave for a few days, but a complete recovery is expected." He watched dispassionately as Wendy scribbled hasty notes. "I wasn't at the bank with him because I was out of state the last two days, attending a funeral," he continued. "I was contacted after landing, and came here directly from the airport. I really don't have any other details for you."

She looked a little disappointed at the brevity of his 'interview,' but managed a bright smile up at him and pocketed her little notebook. "Thanks, Jim. This is great – and I'm very glad Blair is going to be okay, you know!" She suddenly craned her neck to peer down the hallway, around Ellison's large form. "Isn't that him now, being wheeled out?" She raised her voice: "Detective Sandburg? Blair?" She made an abrupt move to dart past, but Jim stepped into her path.

"No." The syllable was quiet, but implacable.

"But an interview – just a few comments—" She feinted left, then dodged back. Once more Ellison blocked her way, seemingly without effort.

"No, Wendy. Leave him alone. I mean it." No way was Jim going to let Blair be pressured and harassed by Wendy Hawthorne – especially since he couldn't remember any of what had happened anyway – and they most definitely didn't want _that_ little detail on the six-thirty news!

She gave up reluctantly, pouting her displeasure, but Jim put a large hand on her shoulder, turned her around and gave her a slight shove towards the exit doors. "Go do your story and be grateful I talked to you at all. And if you try to bother Sandburg again..." He didn't finish the sentence, but the threat was implicit.

"Okay, okay – tell Blair I'm glad he's all right," she said, with surprising warmth. "Thanks again, Detective." The next moment she was gone.

Ellison shook his head, and turned to greet Blair as an orderly wheeled him into the waiting room. He was wearing a short hospital gown in lieu of his shirt – Jim suspected it had been cut off upon Blair's arrival in the ER, and was therefore gone for good – and his left arm was now encased in a dark blue fiberglass cast and supported in a sling. Blair attempted a smile, but he looked both battered and exhausted, and the pleasant expression died away almost immediately.

Jim reached for the handles of the wheelchair. "I'll take him from here," he informed the orderly. "Got all your paperwork?" he asked his partner kindly. "Pain meds? Instructions?"

"In here." Blair indicated a small plastic zippered bag on his lap, which appeared to contain several sample packets of pills, and some folded sheets of paper. "Dr. Penhallow said I could go."

"Then let's get out of here, buddy."

#####

"You hungry, Chief?" Jim eased his partner down onto the couch. Blair had adamantly refused to go to bed, but conceded that lying on the sofa sounded like a plan he could live with.

"No..." Blair sighed. "But I'll bet you are, aren't you? You don't get fed on airplane flights anymore."

Jim nodded. He'd been trying to ignore the mutinous rumblings of his stomach for nearly an hour now, but it was getting to the point where he was actively considering gnawing on his leather jacket in search of any meager sustenance. "Yeah – kinda."

Sandburg chuckled softly. "'Kinda' meaning you're starving to death. Go ahead and eat; you aren't going to hurt my feelings. And really, I'm not very hungry – call it a side effect of the pain medication."

"You haven't HAD any pain medication yet. They didn't give you anything at the hospital," Jim pointed out, although he was perfectly aware that being banged up as much as Blair was could certainly affect a person's appetite. "Could you manage a cup of soup or something like that?" He rummaged through the refrigerator with great determination, triumphantly hauling out a glass casserole dish filled with leftover lasagna, and placed it in the microwave oven to heat.

"No...but tea sounds good," Blair admitted. "I'd like some...some...lemon ginger tea and...um...some Ritz™ crackers," he requested. He carefully leaned his aching head against the back of the couch. "Jim," he added dejectedly, "is there any chance I could get outta this stupid hospital gown and into some real clothes?" He shivered. "Some warmer clothes?"

Ellison had quirked an eyebrow at the 'tea and Ritz™' crackers request, but simply put the teakettle on to heat and got out the box of teabags and the crackers. Tea and crackers was better than nothing. The appeal for different clothing met with an equally sympathetic response. "Sure, Chief. I'll bring you some stuff to put on," he said, and disappeared into Blair's bedroom.

###

Ten minutes later Sandburg was stretched full-length on the sofa, wearing a pair of sweatpants, heavy knit socks, and a sweatshirt long designated as his 'Owie Shirt.' They each had one, Blair's a deep red, Jim's navy blue, and both men had gotten a lot of use out of them, over the years. Although Ellison certainly never called his shirt by such a ridiculous name out loud, once he'd heard Sandburg refer to _his_ that way, he did so in his head – something else he never intended to divulge to Blair. The shirts were extra-large in size, to fit over bulky bandages. They zipped up the front, so they could be put on without being pulled over the head. The cuffs were cut off the sleeves, so that there was more room to stretch over casts or braces. And they were lined with soft cotton, extra-soothing for a Sentinel's sensitive skin, and for extra warmth, since pain meds often dropped a person's body temperature.

"That feels soooo incredibly much better," Blair sighed, stretching gingerly. "Thanks, man."

Jim carefully adjusted the sling, and covered Blair with an afghan, then headed into the kitchen, where the microwave was beeping insistently, reminding him that his lasagna was hot. He quickly dished up his meal, set it on the table, and got a bottle of water out of the fridge. Then, before sitting down to eat, he made Blair's tea and took it, along with the crackers, a glass of water and a packet of prescription pain medication, to his partner.

Blair made a wry face at the sight of the little yellow tablet, but didn't argue about taking it. He began to sip carefully at the hot tea, and nibble on a cracker. Jim went back to his dinner.

A sudden thought occurred to him, and he glanced at his watch. To his surprise, it was just past 6:30, earlier than he'd imagined. "Chief, why don't we turn on the news? Channel 11."

"Why?" Blair turned languidly curious eyes in Jim's direction.

"Well, there's probably coverage of the bank robbery," Jim said reasonably. "I'd like to see what went down – and it might jog your memory, whaddya think?" He didn't mention his encounter with Wendy Hawthorne.

"There is that..." Sandburg picked up the remote control and aimed it at the set.

Their timing was good – as sound and picture came up on the screen, the anchorman was saying "An attempted bank robbery in downtown Cascade today turned into a bloody shootout with police..."

Jim got up from the table, carrying his plate, and came over to sit on the loveseat, barely taking his eyes from the screen. He set the plate on the coffee table.

"How'd you do that?" Blair sounded slightly awed. "You said – and it was on..."

"Coincidence. Now hush, I want to hear this."

"As if you couldn't hear it anyway," Blair muttered, but obediently fell silent.

They watched as the film rolled, listening as the announcer did an explanatory voiceover. Jim found himself tensing again as he beheld his partner, followed by Connor and Rafe, starting up the marble steps. On the sofa, Blair was gazing at the screen in fascination, as if watching a particularly engrossing movie. When the _crack!_ of the backfire came, he jumped slightly.

Ellison bit down hard on his lower lip as the man in the bank doorway fired his gun. He watched onscreen-Blair jerk sideways, grabbing at his shoulder, and topple down the steps in an uncontrolled tumble. He heard the angry fusillade of gunshots as the SWAT team fired their weapons, but his concentration was on the crumpled figure of his partner and best friend, lying at the bottom of the stairs...

"Jim...Jim!" Blair's anxious voice cut through the fog of misery threatening to overwhelm him.

Jim blinked and turned his head. "Yeah?"

"It's okay, I'm here, remember?" Blair smiled in reassurance. "I'm all right."

The Sentinel smiled too, although the sight of Blair's bruised face made him ache inside. "Yeah, you are, aren't you?" The television caught his attention again, as the videotape cut off, showing the anchorman at his desk.

"Reporter Wendy Hawthorne talked with Detective James Ellison, partner to Detective Sandburg, at the hospital," the man said, "and has some good news to report, to add to this story. Wendy?"

"Thanks, Jeff..." The camera shifted to show the perfectly-groomed-and-polished blonde newswoman. In a corner of the screen, a file photo of Jim and Blair was displayed; lacking videotape of the interview, Channel 11 had gone with what they had. Jim grinned in wry appreciation – he couldn't remember exactly when the photo had been taken, but knew it was at the wrap-up of some case or other. The camera had caught him looking determined and focused; Blair, beside him, appeared resolute and competent. _Not bad..._

"Wait a minute, you talked to Wendy Hawthorne? When?" Sandburg demanded.

"While you were getting your cast on; she ambushed me in the waiting room. Shhh."

"...spoke briefly with Detective Ellison, who had just returned from business out of town," Hawthorne was saying. "He assured me that Detective Sandburg's injuries were relatively minor, and included a concussion, a broken wrist, and a minor gunshot wound – and that he is expected to make a full recovery."

"Relatively minor, huh..." Blair muttered resentfully. "They don't FEEL very minor!"

"You're home, aren't you?" Jim reminded him, and thumbed the remote to turn off the TV as the broadcast cut to a commercial. "Well, did seeing that video jog your memory any?"

Sandburg frowned. "A little," he said uncertainly. "I can remember flashes now – riding to the bank in Rafe's car...talking to Captain Martinez. And...Rafe dropping my vest on the ground before I put it on." He shivered. "I remember feeling something stinging my arm – and—" He gulped and added faintly, "and...falling..."

Ellison reached a steadying hand out to his Guide. "Hey. It's okay," he echoed Blair's earlier words. "You're here. You're all right. It's okay."

Blair nodded and raised his mug of tea to his lips, taking a small sip. Suddenly he grinned – albeit painfully, as it jarred his bruised cheek. "Hey, I just thought of something!" he said. "If I can't remember what happened, I won't have to write up a report on it!"

#####

Blair finished his tea and crackers, and dozed off shortly afterwards. Jim finished eating, quietly cleaned up the kitchen, then took his bag upstairs to unpack it. He was tired, with the weariness one acquired from traveling, but knew he needed to get Sandburg settled in bed before he himself could crash. He hadn't thought about asking Simon if he could have an extra day off, to take care of his partner. He noted the time – _Okay, it's still early!_ – and picked up the phone.

" _Banks."_

"It's Jim, captain."

" _How's Sandburg?"_

"Asleep. Doing okay, but I was wondering about tomorrow...leaving him alone..." Ellison let the words trail off suggestively in hope that Simon would take the hint and offer the day off without his actually having to ask for it.

The captain didn't disappoint. _"I don't expect you in until afternoon at the earliest,"_ he said gruffly, _"And if you need more time, take it."_

Ellison smiled. That was Simon Banks, all bark and – in the case of his Major Crimes detectives – just enough bite to be an effective boss. He saved the _serious_ biting for other people.

"Thanks, sir, I appreciate that. It's been kind of a long day."

" _You'll make up the time, detective; don't kid yourself. You and Sandburg both,"_ Banks snapped. Jim just smirked. He wasn't concerned. He and Blair accumulated so much comp time it was a standing joke. _"Did the doctor give you any indication about when the kid can come back? And has he remembered anything more about this afternoon?"_

"Maybe the first of next week, depending on how much the concussion bothers him – if the headaches are a problem." Jim had the answer, having read the page of instructions Blair had been given. "If they aren't, probably Friday. As Connor would say, no worries with the bullet graze or the broken wrist, as long as he takes it easy. And he's remembered a few flashes...specifically, falling down the steps, which wouldn't be my first choice of a memory to recover. Maybe more coming; remember, the doctor said it can take up to 24 hours. Or longer, for that matter."

" _Definitely riding a desk for a few days,"_ Banks grunted. _"Well, that'll give him a chance to catch up on reports."_

Recalling Blair's realization that he wouldn't have to write a report about an incident he didn't remember, Jim grinned more widely. "He can't type in that cast," he reminded his boss cheerfully, and he distinctly heard Simon's snort of disgust over the line.

" _In that case,_ _you_ _can type 'em,"_ the captain said, and ended the conversation.

###

Jim finished his unpacking, consigning everything in the bag to the clothes hamper. He stowed the bag in his closet, and looked longingly at his bed. It seemed to beckon to him, crooning a siren song about _sleep...and rest...and smooth sheets, and soft pillows..._ He shook himself free of the reverie, reminding himself that first he had to get Sandburg alert enough to go to bed. Then – ah, _then_ he could succumb to sleep himself, surely! Even if it was interrupted periodically to check on his partner's well-being.

Before he could move down the stairs, however, Ellison was startled to hear a groan of pain from his roommate. Peering over the railing, Jim saw Sandburg moving restively on the couch, and although he appeared to still be asleep, every so often a soft whimper escaped his lips.

 _Bad dream...flashback...keep him from moving around, so he doesn't fall off the couch and hurt himself..._ As the thoughts flitted through his mind, Jim was already diving for the stairs, descending so rapidly he nearly ended up falling to the bottom as Blair had done. Getting his feet under him, he sprinted for the sofa.

"Chief. Blair...wake up. C'mon, wake up." Jim didn't want to shake him, or slap his face, even lightly; Blair had been roughed up enough already today, no reason to add any more discomfort. Instead, he used a little judicious jiggling of Sandburg's good arm, as well as his voice, to rouse his sleeping roommate.

With a little gasp, Blair came awake, his eyes blinking open to stare dazedly up at the hovering Sentinel. "Uh...?"

"If you ask me who I am again, I'm gonna smack you good, concussion or no," Ellison threatened gently, smiling to take the sting from the words.

Blair smiled in return. "No, I know who you are...and I'm sorry about before..." He took a long, slow breath, then let the air out in a sigh. "I was dreaming," he murmured. "Dreaming about today..."

"Remembering more?" Jim pulled the afghan away and slid a hand behind his partner's head, urging him to sit up. "I think it's time you headed for bed, buddy, even though it's early. If you stay on the couch all night you'll be stiff in the morning – well, stiffer. You'll be stiff and sore no matter what, I'm afraid."

"Remembering a little more," Sandburg acknowledged, pushing himself up. He closed his eyes briefly as a wave of dizziness washed over him, and Jim tightened his hold. "I think. But how do I know if what I'm dreaming actually happened or is just...dreaming?"

Ellison pondered that a moment and shrugged. "Good question. I guess you don't."

"I'll have to ask Megan if I had a turkey sandwich on pita bread for lunch," Blair said thoughtfully. "If I did, maybe I am starting to get things back." He shoved the afghan away and swung his feet to the floor.

"You're gonna end up writing that report after all," Jim warned. He eased his roommate to his feet, keeping a supporting arm around him, and headed them in the direction of the bathroom.

"That's all right. There's not much to write, after all. I went to the bank, I talked to the guy, I started up the steps, I fell down the steps. End of story. Someone else has to write all the parts I missed by being knocked out!" Blair pushed the bathroom door open, switched on the light and stared at his battered reflection in the mirror with dismay. "Good Lord, I look awful! How can you stand having me around? I could star as the fourth monster from the right in the latest horror flick!"

"Well, I've seen you look better," Jim allowed, fighting back laughter, "But I'm a former Ranger, Sandburg, remember? We're the really tough ones. I've seen it all – besides, I'm concentrating real hard on not fleeing screaming into the night – hey!" He stepped back as Blair made a half-hearted jab at Jim's stomach with his elbow. "You need any help in here?"

"Nah, 'm good. Just gonna be a few minutes." Blair grimaced at the mirror again. "Can we cover up all the mirrors for a few days? And keep the drapes shut so the windows don't reflect? Sheesh..."

True to his word, Blair emerged shortly, and headed directly to his bedroom. Jim followed with a glass of water and another packet of analgesics, but his partner eyed them dubiously and then shook his head.

"I don't think I need to take any more just yet. The pain's just kinda...there, ya know? Not real bad."

"Sandburg, if you keep on top of it, it won't get bad," Ellison reminded him patiently. "Don't play catch-up with pain, doofus; don't let it get ahead of you. How about you split one, and take half?"

"I'm down with that," Blair conceded, and proceeded to do so.

Jim helped his Guide get settled in bed, tucking extra pillows in various places to elevate and support the broken wrist and take pressure off the worst of the bruises. Blair blinked up at him.

"I'm not really sleepy, Jim. It's not even nine o'clock, and I just woke up from a nap, after all."

Ellison acknowledged the truth of that statement with a thoughtful nod. He pulled Blair's desk chair over next to the bed and sat down.

"Just relax, Chief, and maybe you'll get sleepy – we can talk for a little, if you want to. Or I could read to you, if you'd rather."

"Tell me about your trip," Sandburg requested. "Were the flights okay? Was the funeral service nice? Did you see some old friends?"

Jim spent some time telling his partner all the details of his brief trip. Once upon a time, he thought, that would have been a real pain, all the talking, the in-depth review of the past two days – sort of like testifying in court! But years of associating with Blair had developed his communication skills – and he'd never _really_ minded talking to Sandburg in any case!

Blair listened quietly, watching Jim's face, occasionally asking a question. When Ellison finished his narrative, Blair smiled.

"So it was a good trip, overall."

"Until I got home and got the news about you," Jim said honestly. "That kind of put a bad spin on it."

"I'm sorry...", Sandburg sighed. "Have I even said thanks for all this? I know you have to be tired from the trip...and here I am, demanding all your attention, being my usual wimpy self..."

"You're not being wimpy, Chief; don't talk like that. You're hurt. And there's no need to be sorry; I'm not that tired," he lied smoothly. "It all evens out; next time it may be me nursing the bruises and the headache, and you doling out the aspirin." Ellison gently pushed a wavy strand of hair away from Blair's face. "I'm just glad this turned out to be 'relatively minor,' to quote Ms. Hawthorne." A sudden dreadful vision of Blair's brain functions being seriously compromised made his throat tighten, and words come hard. "You might have lost a little tiny bit of what happened today, Chief...but all the important stuff's still there. You still remember..." He stopped, unable to continue.

"I still remember you – and what you are – and what you do...and us –and what we are, and what we've done," his Guide said softly, "so you're right. All the important stuff's still there."

"Chief..." Jim hesitated over what he wanted to ask. He knew what _he'd_ thought Blair might want to forget, given the chance, but – would Blair's opinions match his? "If you could erase memories – any memories you wanted – what would you get rid of? Would you get rid of anything?"

"Whoa, heavy question, there, Jim." Blair eyed him curiously, but appeared to give the query serious thought. "If I could erase memories, huh, as opposed to losing them whether I want to or not...Well, yeah, there are a few." Blair reached for Jim's hand, linking their fingers, and Jim braced himself for the inevitable. "The memory of you disappearing, when Colonel Oliver snatched you." Sandburg swallowed hard and went on: "The memory of you going under, in that vat on the oil rig, when I didn't think I was going to be able to get you out in time. The time you were blinded by Golden...When you went undercover at the prison – I thought you were going to die in there, Jim, I really did. When I heard those goons on the train say they'd thrown you off. When I thought you'd been caught in that warehouse fire..."

The Sentinel listened to his partner, scarcely able to believe what he was hearing. Everything Blair wanted to forget – they were all about something happening to _him_ , not to Blair himself! "Ah, Chief..."

"I can work myself right into a panic attack real easy, thinking about all the times I was sure you were going to be killed, Jim – or already had been." Blair's grip tightened to a painful intensity. "So if there were memories I'd be willing to lose...those would be the ones."

Ellison sighed softly. "I think we need to have a little talk about this when you're feeling better, buddy," he said. "Somewhere along the line your priorities and your sense of self-preservation got screwed up."

"Nah...my priorities are right where they should be. And my self-preservation's just fine." Blair closed his eyes, smiling. "It's your lack of it that's making me old before my time!"

Jim could feel tremors shaking the hand which still clutched his. "You're exhausted," he said. "Whether you feel sleepy or not, you need to rest."

"'kay...maybe you're right."

"I'll check on you every couple of hours," Jim promised, feeling weary at the thought.

"No way." Sandburg's eyes flickered open and he glared at his partner. "You're exhausted too – you need a full night's sleep. I'll be just fine; I don't need to be checked all the time."

"Chief, the only reason they let you out of the hospital is because I said I'd keep an eye on you – and that means waking you up periodically!" Jim snapped in exasperation.

"Let's compromise. Eight hours," Blair wheedled. "Wake me up in eight hours, not two."

"Three."

"Six."

"Three."

"Four."

"Well...all right, four," Ellison agreed. "Four hours, no longer than that."

Blair eyed him, assessing his chances of bargaining further. "Okay," he sighed reluctantly. "I guess four will do." He yawned. "Night, Jim..."

Jim got to his feet and switched off the desk lamp, leaving the room in semi-darkness so that Sandburg wouldn't see his triumphant grin. He'd managed to get the 'four hours' coming from _Blair_ , so there was no way his Guide could argue about it. He was pretty certain, having been watching Blair all evening, that he'd be fine sleeping that long without being awakened. _Score one for the Sentinel_ , he gloated, but aloud he said only: "Goodnight, partner – see you in four!"

The End


End file.
